


That's "His Mighty, The Biggest, Baddest, Brotheriest" To You

by james



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5378045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>P.K. heads home for the holidays, which means harassing his younger siblings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's "His Mighty, The Biggest, Baddest, Brotheriest" To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teshumai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teshumai/gifts).



"Everyone sit down," their mom announced as she came through the hatchway, covered platter in her hands. Ignoring the instruction, P.K. leapt to his feet, tripping Jordan to the deck and getting to her side first, neatly claiming Best Son Award for helping her bring dinner to the table. He ignored the way Jordan punched him in the leg from where he was sprawled half under the table.

"Boys, behave," came the absent-minded reprimand from the other end of the table. Their dad usually didn't bother to raise his voice nowadays – in the last few years P.K. had only heard him yell for real once, last Christmas, when all five of the kids had practically destroyed the tree during their wrapping-gel fight.

At least they'd waited until after everything was opened, P.K. had wanted to explain, but he was the oldest and the wisest and therefore knew when to keep his big mouth shut and look woeful and penitent and like he hadn't even been the one to start it. (The fight had actually been started by Nastassia, but she'd deftly shoved the blame onto Jordan and Natasha. Dad had sent them all out to scrub the residential passageway outside their home -- which was just so unfair, because the habitat facility had robots to do that sort of thing, it wasn't the responsibility of the families living in the Upper Five Ring to keep it clean. 

Their neighbors liked to say the Subban kids spent more time cleaning the passageways than the robots ever did, but P.K. knew that was just clearly wrong. When had they ever had time to get into trouble anyway, when they were always going to school or grav-hockey practise? Their reputation was absolutely undeserved and P.K. made sure to say so whenever a local reporter brought it up. (He was still hoping the system sports newscasters hadn't yet figured out the Subban kids were – wrongfully – known for being troublemakers, because then Carey pretend it was accurate and would never let him live it down. Exuberant and active, sure, but "trouble" was, well okay Jordan and Malcolm and Nastassia, maybe. He and Natasha were _angels._ )

Right at the moment, Nastassia was sitting in place at their dad's right, still talking about applying for pilot school and whether or not the new hyper-light engines were going to make human pilots obsolete before she had her chance to make a career of interstellar flight.

"You should get your in-system license just in case," P.K. told her, interrupting her account of how she'd beaten Bobby Tuller's scores in the simulator. Like they hadn't heard that story twenty times already, and in private he'd told her how proud he was.

She rolled her eyes at him, the way she'd done every time someone suggested she be sensible.

Like P.K. wouldn't support her if she ended up broke and jobless following her dreams anyway. He'd already set aside enough to help her buy a small ship of her own if she wanted to fly independent instead of signing with a merch fleet. But he'd wait for her to try it on her own, the way she preferred and just be ready to help if she needed it. He figured she knew it too, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to needle her occasionally.

The outer door chimed, and they all looked up – a moment later they heard Malcolm calling out. "The Real Big Shot is home!"

"Yeah, I've been home for two days!" P.K. called back. He grinned as his little brother came into the dining room.

Malcolm just shook his head. "Man, nobody cares about you, you're old news," he said, making the rounds to give Mom a kiss, thump their sisters on the shoulders and then over to hug Dad. He made his way to Jordan and exchanged a fistbump, then he stood in front of PK and eyed him doubtfully.

"I don't even know you," P.K. said, shaking his head. "Your whole division sucks."

"At least I don't--"

"Boys, don't make me say 'no hockey talk' at the dinner table," their dad interrupted. "Because I have a lot I need to say about the New Jamaica Flyers, and that idiot they call a head coach." He looked at each of them sternly.

P.K. opened his mouth to point out his Habs had beaten the Flyers last month and the sad showing by the defense wasn't the head coach's doing, but stopped himself. When Malcolm had been drafted by the Bevel Five Bruins, their dad had declared that he was no longer obligated to be a Habs fan for his son's sake, and reverted to his childhood team. (P.K. knew their dad had three jerseys in his closet, Habs, Bruins, Flyers, and that he wore the Flyers jersey when the Bruins played the Habs.) There was no one more passionate about the Flyers in the entire Upper Five and P.K. didn't want to risk getting kicked out of his childhood home by pointing out the Flyers' entire roster was playing like little leaguers.

"We could talk about Natasha's new boyfriend," Jordan suddenly pipped up, and Natasha shrieked, throwing a wadded up napkin at him, and suddenly the room dissolved into babbling chaos. P.K. gave his youngest brother a grateful nod and sat down near Mom, and grabbed the serving spoon.

Time enough later to trick Malcolm into criticising Dad's team and get banished to the storage locker for the holidays.


End file.
